


Bearable

by yeaka



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies), Star Trek: The Original Series
Genre: Established Relationship, Ficlet, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-22
Updated: 2021-02-22
Packaged: 2021-03-19 08:07:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,230
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29623194
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: A lull in the hall.
Relationships: James T. Kirk/Spock
Comments: 20
Kudos: 116





	Bearable

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don’t own Star Trek or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

He slips out of the hall the first chance he gets, which is far too long into the evening, but it’s always difficult for a captain to escape. Jim’s no diplomat, even if it’s a fair chunk of his job, but somehow he still winds up the center of attention at these sort of functions—conferences, more like parties than not, clustered about whatever space can be made large enough and suitable. A host of different delegations is aboard—some so alien that there are no Federation equivalents (yet), and some so familiar that they may as well be human. In terms of dinner and conversations, there hasn’t been anything too outlandish. Despite the multitude of colours and limbs and flashy formal clothing, it’s the same as every other boring meet-and-greet Jim’s had aboard the _Enterprise_.

As much as he enjoys the chance to break out the good champagne—leagues better than Bones’ bitter bourbon and Scotty’s boiler-room-brewed ale—it’s even better to be out of the stuffy atmosphere. The corridor outside is barren, empty for the simulated night. The security contingent is on the inside, manning the doors in high-collared, knee-length uniforms with phasers fully hidden. There haven’t been any visible problems so far.

The one invisible issue’s hung over his head since he first introduced the Third Reining Monarch to his first officer, and she snatched up Spock’s hand for an iron-tight squeeze than drained all the colour from his face.

Spock swiftly recovered, of course, and never showed any change that anyone but Jim would notice. He respectfully allowed the rest of the delegation to greet him in a similar fashion, and endured the too-close brush of a separate one, and the bird-like aliens that seemed to love sweeping their feathers along others’ arms. The one thing all the different aliens have in common is how _tactile_ they’ve been. They’re all pleasantly friendly, unusually non-combative, easy going and easy to get along with, and any human would probably enjoy the occasion light squeeze on a shoulder or the gentle clapping of a hand. 

But Jim’s first officer is only half-human, and he’s not surprised to see Spock near the end of the corridor, standing against the bulkhead. Spock’s dark eyes are nowhere in particular, his bow lips set in a dull frown. His mind looks far away, his posture contemplative, his arms behind his back as they so often are. His sleekly brushed black hair and his crisp blue tunic are striking in the artificial light. Yet he looked better by the viewport inside; Spock always comes alive under the starlight, even if Jim can never articulate to him quite why.

He looks up at Jim’s approach, not bothering with so much as a _hello_ or a nod, because Jim’s presence can’t be a true disturbance—they’re always orbiting each other one way or another. When Spock left, he had to know that Jim would join him eventually. But he didn’t get very far—maybe couldn’t bring himself to leave—perhaps he felt he might be summoned back at any second by the captain he so faithfully serves. 

Jim could drag Spock back in to suffer with him but doesn’t. Instead, Jim comes to stand beside Spock, facing away from the doors of the hall, turned towards the nondescript wall of their joint-custody starship. There’s no one around, and the murmur of distance conversation behind them is so faint that there’s no need to talk over it. Jim keeps his voice hushed anyway when he notes, “It’s been a long evening, hasn’t it?”

Spock levelly returns, “Despite contrary Terran colloquialisms, time is not relative.” He gives a short pause, where Bones might roll his eyes, or if this were on the bridge in front of the crew, Jim might laugh or at least grin at Spock’s usual willful ignorance. This time, Jim only waits, and Spock slowly adds, “However... I know what you mean.”

Jim nods as though in gratitude, really just acknowledgement. He imagines it’s been a trying time for Spock too. Nothing nearly so bad as some of their worse missions—it isn’t as though they’ve been in battle or matching wits with Romulans or facing Klingon posturing. But sometimes it seems like the two of them were built for those sorts of high-stake adventures, and it’s oddly difficult to simply survive the purely mundane parts of duty. 

Maybe a few quiet minutes alone are what Spock needs at the moment. Jim seems welcome at his side. But Jim also knows him well enough to mutter, “I’ll keep my distance for awhile.” No huddling up to him at the science station, no leaning against him in the turbolift, no little touches on the shoulder when he’s done well. Jim’s often been too tactile too. Spock’s gaze shifts aside to him, locking on, and Jim turns to meet it head-on.

Spock’s arms fall out of their rigid lines. His hand moves towards Jim, upturned, palm open. He waits, and Jim, surprised, reaches out to clasp it. 

Spock’s long fingers close around his knuckles. A subtle shiver slithers through Jim’s body, radiating from the point of contact—a flicker of _warmth_ that Spock always gives him. The sparks aren’t as sharp as they’ve been on other nights, under other circumstances, when they’ve been in the midst of undressing or bare _skin-on-skin_ all together, but there’s always _some_ sparks. Even in professional settings. Jim knows that feeling is for him alone, and the aliens won’t have experienced that instantaneous, life-changing, soul-wrenching connection. He just knows Spock prefers not to touch others where it can be avoided. 

Yet he tells Jim, “There is no need with you, _t’hy’la_. Though I do appreciate the consideration.” 

Spock says it so plainly, so matter-of-factly. Jim shouldn’t feel butterflies. After so many years, he still does. He gives Spock’s hand a little squeeze, and Spock stands firm under it, the tantalizing whiff of his mind so close that Jim could taste it, could dive into it, perhaps could initiate a _full-on_ meld himself by this touch alone: just retracing a familiar path that Spock’s taken into him a dozen times. As wrong as physical touch can be for Vulcans, Jim knows this is _right_.

An automatic door whooshes open behind them, and both their hands abruptly fall away. It’s not embarrassment or shame, just practicality. Jim glances over his shoulder and isn’t surprised to see Bones coming—it’s just another piece of the familiar puzzle. 

He probably noticed the aliens’ universal quirk too, but he doesn’t say anything. One look at them, and he seems to know Jim already did. Instead, he settles for, “How come the rest of us have to suffer through this nonsense if the captain and first officer don’t?”

Spock’s hands are already behind his back again, and he quips with ease, “One of the luxuries of command, Doctor.”

Bones’ nose wrinkles. An insult must be imminent, but for once, Jim’s not in the mood for their charming banter. He’s in the mood for a nice, quiet night with his science officer, maybe just a game of 3D chess, and another peek at the stars. He relents, “We were just heading back, actually.”

Bones snorts—he knows he’s caught them. But he leads the triad home, and Spock takes a deep breath before following too, ever at Jim’s side.


End file.
